When Harold Met Dolly
by Marianne Greenleaf
Summary: On the run after a con goes bad in Appalachia, Harold Hill and Marcellus Washburn cool their heels in Yonkers. But Dolly Vandergelder isn't about to put up with their shenanigans...
1. Ya Got Trouble

_A/N – After The Music Man, Hello, Dolly! is my favorite musical. Given that Hello, Dolly! takes place in 1890 and The Music Man takes place in 1912, it definitely isn't out of the realm of possibility that Harold Hill could have crossed paths with Dolly Levi at some point during his travels before he got to River City. Given that both Harold and Dolly have such strong, charismatic, and commanding personalities, I always thought it would be a lot of fun to see how they bounce off one another. Now, a full ten years after discovering both musicals, I have finally gotten around to writing about it!_

XXX

_I have always been a woman who arranges things,  
for the pleasure – and the profit – it derives.  
I have always been a woman who arranges things,  
like furniture and daffodils and lives.  
~Dolly Levi, Hello, Dolly!_

_A man can't turn tail and run just because a little personal risk is involved.  
~Harold Hill, The Music Man_

XXX

_June 1902_

It wasn't often that Harold Hill harbored any regrets. Once he boarded the train out of town, he left the past firmly behind.

But not this time. Appalachia had been a close shave. Too close. Usually, close shaves made him feel even more exhilarated and itching to move on to the next escapade. But something about this particular trip rattled him. He'd initially taken the Appalachians for simple backwoods hicks, but he hadn't realized just how violent in the course of protecting their own that they could be. It was certainly the nearest he'd ever come to death in the course of a con. And they hadn't even figured out he was playing them completely false – not yet. They'd merely caught him taking a few untoward liberties with a local gal. She'd been entirely willing, of course, but her father was furious. Furious enough to round up a local mob and demand, at gunpoint, that the swindler make an honest woman of his deflowered daughter. Harold had actually been dumbfounded to find himself in such a ludicrous bind – he'd thought shotgun weddings were a thing of the past, if not an outright myth! But even though he found out, in the most unpleasant way possible, how persistently some places still clung to this outdated tradition, he wasn't about to submit to it. Unfortunately, all the pretty speeches he'd made in an attempt to wheedle his way out of such a suffocating comeuppance for surrendering to temptation only got him gagged as well as bound while they brought out the tar. And it had been boiling hot. His left arm would never be the same.

Harold wasn't quite sure how Marcellus managed to get him out of _that_ scrape. His memories were hazy and tinged with pain once the tar hit his skin. He dimly recalled a gunshot ringing out, followed by a burst of shouting and sheer pandemonium, and then a strong pair of hands slicing away the gag and the rope, hoisting him to his feet, and guiding him out of melee. He didn't fully regain his faculties until shortly after his shill had somehow managed to drag him onto the nearest train northward and clean his wound. Now that they were on their way back to civilization, where they could cool their heels and consider their next move, he was scot-free. Even if he'd had to sacrifice a great deal of his own dignity, they'd escaped with the money, and that was the main thing.

But that stubborn little knot of dread in the pit of his stomach refused to go away so easily. Harold had never faced such an angry crowd, and he was pretty sure the only reason he hadn't been shot outright was because they wanted to put the fear of God into him first. If Marcellus hadn't gotten him out of there, he was certain he wouldn't be alive today. He ought to be more grateful. But Harold had always prided himself on his independence and ability to talk himself out of any situation on his own. So it wasn't exactly a comforting feeling, knowing how much he owed to another man for his own life. Especially not when said man was looking at him with narrowed eyes, like he'd finally come to his limit on what he was prepared to endure for his boss's sake.

"How's your arm?" Marcellus asked gruffly, when he caught Harold looking at him.

His arm still burned like the devil, but the conman smiled as if he didn't have a care in the world. "Barely a twinge."

Looking even more annoyed, Marcellus grunted something noncommittal.

For some silly reason, Harold felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, which did not blend well with the dread that had already taken up residence there. "Thank you again for getting me out of there," he said, lending a bit more heartfelt sincerity than usual to the breezy rejoinder he always gave whenever they emerged unscathed from a scheme. "I owe you one, Marce."

"You owe me a million," Marcellus said peevishly.

It wasn't the first time his shill had saved his bacon, but it was the first time he'd ever sounded so resentful about it. When Harold shot him a probing, bewildered look, his expression softened and he added in a chastened voice, "But who's counting?"

"Apparently, you are," Harold said sullenly, too out of sorts to pretend otherwise, and turned away to look out the window.

XXX

When they stepped off the train into New York City, Harold immediately went to find Clara, an actress and burlesque dancer he liked to look up whenever he passed through the city. He was dimly aware that Marcellus picked up some Rubenesque opera singer in the theater district, but didn't spend a whole lot of time observing what his shill did, as he was too eager to purge the acrid memories of Appalachia from his mind and body. With Clara, he didn't have to go through the tiresome pretense of buying her dinner or even buttering her up with flattery and flirtation. He could just knock on her door and she'd drop her drawers for him. Which she did – quite literally. Apparently, he'd caught her at a _very_ good time. It was just what he needed, so he didn't waste any time dropping his trousers in return.

After he'd finally finished taking her any and every which way he could think of, the knots in his stomach finally loosening as he did so, she laughed at his exuberance. "That was something else, even for you! Did they not have any women where you've been?"

"Not like you," he grinned.

It wasn't at all a romantic sentiment, and it certainly wasn't said in an affectionate tone of voice. But she crinkled her pert little nose and swatted him away, anyway. "There's _never_ been another woman like me, honey. But don't you go getting all sentimental – it's not a good look for you."

"Oh, I wasn't being sentimental," Harold assured her. He tapped her backside. "Not many gals allow a fella to make use of the backdoor so freely as you."

"Silly gals," Clara laughed. "They don't know what they're missing!" As she eyed his body very appreciatively, her eyes fell on the unsightly scar he'd most recently acquired. Before he could turn away or even distract her, she reached out a long, tapered finger and traced the scar on his arm. "Oh, Harold! What happened _this_ time?"

"Got too close to a hot stove," he said smoothly, forcing himself not to flinch away from her gentle but probing touch. From a certain point of view, it wasn't exactly a lie. After all, he wouldn't have gotten boiling tar poured on him if he hadn't tried to talk his way out of that cockamamie shotgun wedding. He hadn't really needed to seduce that gal on this trip, as there was no music teacher in town. But after several cons where he'd been forced to pretend attraction to a string of plain and even unappealing women, he was parched for some real pleasure. And she'd been such a pretty little thing, too, with her wide blue eyes and silky blonde hair. A little inexperienced for his tastes, but she unfolded just beautifully beneath his touch and, after a little private tutoring, he had her writhing beneath him as expertly as any sadder-but-wiser girl. It was just too bad they'd gotten caught by her father, who'd never fully warmed up to what he was selling in the first place –

Harold came out of his reverie to find Clara looking up him with measured, almost appraising, eyes. "That must've been quite the stove that burned you, honey."

It wasn't sympathy that colored her tone – not exactly, anyway – but it made the knot of dread in Harold's stomach came back full force. He'd never let a woman get his number _or_ his goat before, and he wasn't about to start now. Ignoring his discomfort, he immediately rolled Clara beneath him and pasted on the most smoldering smile he could muster. "Well, you should have seen what _I _did to the stove. I definitely got the better end of the deal."

Clara's eyes lit up, and she tightened her arms around him. "Ooh – are you going to show me?"

Finally, he had an excuse to shut her up, so he did. Round two was even more debauched and drawn out than the first. But this time, Harold wasn't solely in it for his own enjoyment. While he didn't hesitate to relish the variety of pleasures Clara offered, he also made sure to tire her out, but good. Once she'd finally had enough and settled into a sated sleep, he shook off his own exhaustion and slipped out of her rooms.

While Harold might return to this city someday, he'd never look up this particular gal again. He'd come to her one too many times, and now she knew far too much about him for comfort. Although she didn't love him, or even demonstrate the slightest sense of possessiveness, she had become a liability rather than an escape. She cared just enough about him to ask prying questions, but not enough to demand any devotion. Her caring, even just a little, bothered him in a way he couldn't really explain and didn't want to think too deeply about. Her _not_ caring would make her an excellent witness for the prosecution if the law ever caught up to him. Because she had no loyalty, she'd feel no compunction to protect him, especially if she was put into the position of having to save her own skin in exchange for betraying his whereabouts. So it was best that he washed his hands of her completely.

XXX

Marcellus did not look at all pleased when Harold found him curled up contentedly in the Rubenesque opera singer's boudoir, woke him up quietly but urgently, and dragged him, still yawning and bleary-eyed, onto the nearest train out of town. If Harold hadn't been so eager to move on, he would have laughed at the irony of the situation. Usually, it was Marcellus interrupting _his_ canoodling and urging him to skedaddle.

But neither man was much inclined to merriment at the moment. Marcellus even grumbled something about having wanted to stop by his old neighborhood in Brooklyn but, at Harold's direction, had grudgingly boarded the northbound train. Harold was in such a haste to get going that he hadn't even bothered to check his P.O. box. Not that there was any reason to keep it anymore – at least, not since his mother's death just a few years back. He really ought to disband it, as it cost him some of his ill-gotten but hard-earned money to maintain. Ah well, he'd get around to it the next time he came through the city.

Given that it was just before sunrise when Harold hustled them onto the train, the car they were occupying was largely empty. At least, empty enough to huddle together and talk in low voices without much danger of being overheard. Besides, New Yorkers tended to mind their own business.

Harold nudged his dozing shill awake. "So what should our next move be, you think?"

"Whatever it is, we should stick to the East Coast," Marcellus said, rubbing his eyes. "It's what we know best."

"Yeah, but we've pretty much exhausted the territory over the last ten years," Harold pointed out.

Marcellus considered. "What about Pennsylvania?" he asked tentatively. "We only did that one town… "

"Nope," Harold said staunchly. He would never set foot in that state again if he could help it. Not after what happened with Eileen.

Marcellus laughed – and rather unkindly, the conman thought. "You're running out of states, Greg – soon you won't be able to go anywhere without the law on your tail!"

Pushing his irritation away, Harold suggested, "How about the Midwest? Other than those two little Missouri towns we fleeced, we've only ever passed through the region on trains. There's a whole land of untapped potential out there. Wide open fields, simple farmers… " _And farmer's daughters_, he thought with a grin, remembering the delectable women he'd wooed out there.

Marcellus snorted. "The Midwest? My accent would stick out like a sore thumb, and you almost got caught in that first little town!"

"That's only because I was just starting out," Harold retorted, sounding a lot more defensive than he would have liked. "After nearly ten years, I'm no longer a greenhorn to this racket."

Marcellus's frown deepened into a downright scowl. "But you don't know a thing about the Midwest!"

The conman gave a careless wave of his hand. "What I don't know I can learn – or fake."

"That's the same attitude that nearly got you killed in Appalachia," his shill said darkly.

"Now look here, son," Harold snapped, his temper getting the better of him at last, "you're not the only one who does all the rescuing around here. I've saved your hide more than a time or two before – and you don't see me giving you a hard time about it. What's come over you?"

In response, Marcellus just glared at him, and an extremely tense silence fell between the two men. But Harold gazed levelly back, meeting the man's gaze without consternation or dismay. He may not have been wiser – though unsaid, it hung heavily in the air that it was _his_ weakness for a pretty face that got them into hot water in Appalachia – but he _was_ older, and he wasn't about to be shamed by his own shill. However, as Harold stared steadily back, it suddenly struck him how _old_ Marcellus looked. He was still a young man, but he was no longer the scruffy and overawed teenager who'd begged to tag along with him on his cons.

Marcellus's frown finally ebbed. "Look, Greg," he sighed, sounding as weary and careworn as a man twice his age. "It's just been a bit rough going, lately. I didn't mean what I said. You're like a brother to me… "

Harold tried to grin, but only managed a small smile. "Never mind, Marce. I forgive you. Now let's get off at the next stop and go to the mercantile, and then the tailor. We need supplies, and I need a new suit or two."

XXX

_A note regarding the OCs in this chapter – if you're curious about what happened with Eileen, Harold tells Marian that Story in Scars. Clara (or her photo) also makes cameos in I Only Have Eyes for You, The Paris Experiment, and Triumph of the Early Bird._


	2. Hello, Yonkers

As it turned out, the next stop was Yonkers, New York.

After a solid decade of conning his way up and down the East Coast, Harold had honed the knack of assessing a place right off the train. Yonkers had the look of a former hick town that was well on its way to bigger and better things. It would be the perfect spot for them to replenish their provisions and lay low for a few days as they considered their next move.

The first thing he and Marcellus did was stop at the mercantile. The only luggage they carried was Harold's trunk, which had his chosen alias emblazoned on it in giant, garishly painted letters. Sadly, it was almost empty. In their rush to flee Appalachia, they couldn't linger and make sure nothing was left behind. While Marcellus had managed to save their clothing and a few other odds and ends, most of Harold's musical tools of the trade were gone. Not that it mattered – he could certainly afford to replace them!

As the conman perused various bins of tools, supplies, and sewing notions, a large party entered the store. It consisted of four noisily chattering adults and a veritable gaggle of bright-eyed and boisterous children, who rushed around exclaiming at the merchandise and putting their inquisitive little fingers all over everything. From there, they proceeded to thoroughly decimate the toy and candy bins. The merchant didn't even bat an eye, so these must have been valuable customers.

Harold's curiosity was immediately piqued. Pretending to be engrossed in his shopping expedition, he surreptitiously assessed the quartet. In mere minutes, he'd not only sized up their personalities, but assigned them all nicknames. The tall, gangling man in the straw boater was dubbed Foolish Fella. The gawky, unassuming man in the newsboy cap was dubbed Shorty. The tall, stately lady with dark tresses and an air of poised elegance was dubbed Cleopatra. The petite, chirruping woman was dubbed Blondie. Having seen enough, Harold plopped all his items into Marcellus's already laden arms, went over to the group, and insinuated his way into their conversation with his usual glib ease.

As it turned out, they were shopping for a lavish milestone birthday party, to be held in honor of one Mrs. Dolly Vandergelder. "I don't dare let on how old she's going to be, as she thinks we don't know, but I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm forty and three quarters," Foolish Fella explained, emitting the most ghastly giggle Harold had ever heard coming from a man. Although the fly-by-night salesman was barely into his thirties, he somehow felt older than this odd, boyish man – perhaps because he had had stopped quartering his own age not long after he hit double digits. Placing a friendly, paternal hand on Foolish Fella's arm, he asked, "What's your name, son?"

Foolish Fella let out another one of those horrible titters. "Holy cabooses, as Barnaby used to say! Where _are_ my manners? Cornelius Hackl, at your service," he said with a flourish and a bow. He gave a sickly sweet smile to Cleopatra, who beamed warmly at him in return. "This is my wonderful wife Irene, and those are our children" – he gestured to the gaggle of kids demolishing the place – "Sally, Nelly, Lilly, Dolly and Molly – they're twins, you know – and Horace."

"What a splendid family!" Harold declared, reaching for a compliment even as he winced inwardly. _Six_ children – and twin daughters, to boot! It wasn't that the conman disliked children. On the contrary, he found them delightful. Their innocence and effusiveness brought back fond memories of the brief but happy time he had been a carefree boy. He just could not fathom being a father, himself. Not in his line of work.

Foolish Fella beamed and continued his introductions, reaching out and snagging Shorty by the elbow – who likewise pulled Blondie over to join them. "This is my business partner and very good friend, Barnaby Tucker, and his charming wife, Minnie. They have four children – Vinnie, Violet, Victor, and Andrew."

Harold grinned widely at the motley company. They struck him as high-spirited, open-hearted, well-meaning rubes – exactly the type of people he most enjoyed conning. There _was_ one person among them who seemed a touch more sophisticated – Irene Hackl, the beautiful woman with dark hair and flashing brown eyes. She had the most intriguing look of sly knowingness that he found immensely alluring. It was too bad she was wearing one of the most ghastly color combinations he had ever seen on a woman – her gown, though cut in the most fashionable silhouette, was chartreuse trimmed with pale blue ribbon. Still, he wouldn't have minded going to bed with her. He had no compunction about seducing a married woman, if she demonstrated even the slightest interest in return. Sadly, it was clear from her sunny but disinterested demeanor that she was just as besotted with her silly husband as he was with her. So the fly-by-night salesman didn't think too seriously in that direction. However, in the midst of the grand and gracious airs he put on while shaking everyone's hand, he did give Mrs. Hackl a wink and a kiss of the hand that made her giggle coyly.

It was a damn shame he was in between cons right now. But maybe he didn't have to be. Deciding to put out some feelers, he started talking himself up. After introducing himself as Professor Harold Hill, traveling salesman and expert establisher of boys' bands, he spun a heart-wrenching sob story about having lost most of his merchandise in a shipping accident. Not only did Foolish Fella, Cleopatra, Shorty, Blondie, and every other able-bodied man and woman in the vicinity swallow this codswallop, he even managed to net enough donations from them to replace his goods ten times over. To increase his aura of authenticity, he directed these kind contributors to leave their gifts with his trusted associate Marcellus Washburn, who handled the bookkeeping and inventory.

As Harold continued declaiming to the excited and eager crowd, there was only one fly in the ointment – Marcellus was openly scowling at him, even as he collected the money from their enthusiastic patrons. But Harold merely winked at his shill and kept going. Unfortunately, he didn't get too much further in his spiel, as the arrival of yet another obviously important couple caused a stir that took the attention away from him. Noting their extreme height disparity and the female's rather diffident demeanor, he dubbed them Beanpole and Mouse. Though they had a bit more polish, Harold sensed they were nearly as green as their Yonkers brethren.

"That's Ambrose and Ermengarde Kemper of New York City," Foolish Fella explained before Harold even had to ask. Clearly, the man took his role as ambassador to Yonkers newcomers quite seriously – which was all the better for the conman, as he wouldn't have to dig too deeply for information. "Ambrose is a famous artist – that's why everyone's swarming around him. Ermengarde is the niece of Horace Vandergelder, my partner in the hay and feed business. We own a store together, you see. I wasn't always partner – I started out as chief clerk, and Mr. Vandergelder promoted me to partner after Dolly convinced him to. As you may recall, Dolly is Mr. Vandergelder's wife that we're having the birthday party for. The party's not tonight, though. It's just a regular Friday, and Ambrose and Ermengarde always come up from the city on Fridays to have dinner with their uncle and aunt at the Harmonia Gardens restaurant. Or should I say, the Harmonia Gardens II. The original one is on 14th Street in New York, but Dolly had them open a second one in Yonkers. The New York Harmonia Gardens is run by Rudolph Reisenweber and the Yonkers Harmonia Gardens is run by his son, Randolph. We often join the family for dinner. As Dolly always says, whether it's in New York or Yonkers, Harmonia Gardens has the finest food that money can buy and a lovely orchestra. They even offer a dancing contest! The prize is a gold cup and some money." His eyes lit up, as if the most wonderful idea had just come to him. "Since you're in town, you and your associate should come to dinner with us! Dolly would love to meet you both."

"Would she, now?" Harold said noncommittally. The more he heard about this Dolly Vandergelder, the more intrigued he grew. But it wouldn't do to show his entire hand. At least, not the way this man was doing.

Foolish Fella's head bobbed up and down and his mouth continued to motor. "Oh, yes! She loves to meet new people. And you'll love her! Everybody does. She's just wonderful – she's the reason Barnaby and I got out of Yonkers and met Irene and Minnie in the first place. Dolly overheard us planning a visit to New York, and told us that Irene owned a ladies' hat shop in the city and that Minnie was her assistant, and that we should visit them for pleasant conversation. Irene was originally intended to be engaged to Mr. Vandergelder, you see, but things weren't really going all that smoothly between them. He wasn't too happy when she started seeing me, but there were no hard feelings after he got engaged to Dolly. This was all the way back in 1890, when I was but a lad of twenty-eight and three quarters and Barnaby was nineteen and a half. And Dolly wasn't Dolly Vandergelder yet – she was still Dolly Levi."

Out of the corner of his eye, Harold saw Marcellus pale with horror and drop his jaw wide open. Fortunately, no one else seemed to notice.

"So it's all water under the bridge and we're all great friends now," Foolish Fella continued. He gazed fondly at his wife, companions, and progeny. "It's been a wonderful life, and I owe it all to Dolly."

Normally, Harold would have had to restrain the inclination to roll his eyes at such maudlin effusiveness. Instead, he felt the strangest twinge of – what was it exactly? Wistfulness? Loneliness? _Envy_? Here was a man who was unlike Harold Hill in every conceivable way. Even at age forty with six children, he was guileless, green, and honest to a fault. But he was supremely and genuinely content with his simple lot. And why shouldn't he be? He didn't have a painful tar burn on his arm, or a bothersome brand mark on his shoulder, or an unsightly knife scar on his side, or excruciating nightmares that started up if he stayed in one town a little too long. Cornelius Hackl had found both his people and his place in the world, all thanks to the marvelous machinations of one indomitable woman named Dolly.

Harold should have heeded Marcellus's warning. Instead, he accepted Mr. Hackl's dinner invitation with genuine cordiality, before excusing himself to finish the rest of his errands.

As soon as he and Marcellus were alone, his shill laid into him.

"Is _this_ what you call lying low? I thought the plan was to get some supplies and then hole up at the nearest boarding house for a few days. Just what is it that you're trying to do with these people?"

Harold shrugged in his usual devil-may-care manner. "I'm just going to dinner to meet the famous Dolly Vandergelder everybody keeps talking about."

But Marcellus wasn't mollified. "Have you forgotten, Greg? I grew up in Brooklyn! I can tell you anything you'd want to know, because I know all about Dolly Levi. Everybody in these parts knows Dolly Levi. She's the cleverest woman who ever talked a frog into getting into the pot and boiling itself. Worse, she's a meddler. She'll cook your goose before you even realize the water is hot!"

Harold scoffed openly at that. "I've never met a woman I couldn't charm, seduce or, failing either of those, buy off."

His shill adamantly shook his head. "Not even the likes of you could tangle with Dolly Levi and come out on top. And even if you do manage to pull the wool over her eyes, it's no good for us to be noticed by people like her!"

"Even if she is too smart, she can't do anything if I'm not actually running a full-scale con in Yonkers," he said with a chuckle. "I think I can handle one dinner with her, Marce."

Marcellus subsided, but into solemnity rather than defeat. He gave Harold a very cold look, so cold that Harold got chills. "If you go to that dinner, Greg – you're on your own."

Harold only paused for a moment. "Fine, have it your way," he replied, as if it didn't much matter. Ignoring the awful sinking sensation that once again settled in the pit of his stomach, he turned away from his shill and headed to the nearest tailor.

XXX

_So Harold has now met the whole Yonkers gang. Next up will be Dolly!_


	3. Call on Dolly

Without sparing any further thought for Marcellus Washburn's silly and unwarranted little snit, Harold went to the tailor and got two suits fitted to him in a trice. Looking at the ready-made options, he selected two workaday getups in durable and attractive brown tweed, which complemented his rich chestnut-colored waves and eyes. Given that he didn't have much call for fancy clothes on the road, he rented rather than purchased a smart black evening suit for dinner.

Once Harold checked into the boarding house closest to the train station and added his new suits to his traveling trunk, he allowed himself to indulge in the luxury of a long, cool bath before dressing for dinner. The tar burn on his arm still twinged when he touched it, which made washing up rather unpleasant, but on the whole it seemed to be healing well enough, with no sign of infection. As Harold smeared salve over the wound and attempted to tie a fresh bandage around his arm, he couldn't help wishing for the assistance of Marcellus's steady fingers, and felt a pang of loneliness, which he promptly muzzled. He was Harold Hill, and he didn't need anyone – especially not a shill who so callously abandoned him!

Although the conman greatly valued his solitude, too much of it was dangerous, especially when he was in such an irritable frame of mind. So he decided to leave for dinner as soon as he was dressed, even though it was still a little early. Besides, it was a good strategic move, as it would allow him to get the lay of the land and identify the choicest position from which to observe the charismatic and cunning Mrs. Dolly Vandergelder. As an added boon, showing up at an unexpected time would also unbalance the others.

However, to Harold's chagrin, the silly quartet was already gathered at the Harmonia Gardens when he strolled in. (The head waiter, Randolph Reisenweber, promptly showed him to their table, which was located in a prominent position right next to the dance floor.) The Vandergelders and the Kempers had yet to arrive, and Foolish Fella informed him they commonly didn't show up until at least an hour after dinner began, as Dolly liked to make a splash with her grand entrance. The fly-by-night salesman, who knew a great deal about the effectiveness of flashy entrances, couldn't help chuckling at that kind of conceit in a woman who may have been deemed formidable but was still a rather small-town female. However, the smile soon disappeared from his face when Foolish Fella inquired about the absence of his associate.

"Regrettably, Mr. Washburn took ill and will not be able to join us this evening," Harold explained, his tone a bit stiffer than he intended.

Foolish Fella nodded as if this news wasn't surprising to him. "He did look awfully troubled the whole time you were talking earlier, and then he went terribly pale at one point. I wondered what that was all about!"

It was not pleasant to realize that Cornelius Hackl was far more observant than Harold had initially taken him for. He gazed shrewdly at the man, who continued to regard him with a benign smile. What else had the man noticed?

"Well, I hope Mr. Washburn feels better soon," Not-So-Foolish Fella said kindly, when Harold did not elaborate.

Thanking Mr. Hackl for his kind regards and promising that he would pass them along to Marcellus, the conman turned his attention to the bustling activity around them. To his wonder and delight, it was truly a treat to watch. The galloping waiters in their bright red jackets were a model of brisk, unsmiling German efficiency coupled with lavish pageantry. He could take lessons from their presentation, and made many mental notes as he watched them deliver all manner of food and drink to each table. There was a spill or two, but these were cleaned up speedily and ostentatiously, as if such disaster was all part of the show. The opulent architecture of the restaurant certainly helped further the air of elegance – with its cathedral ceilings, carved pillars and balustrades, plush red carpet, bubbling fountains, lush foliage, electric lanterns, and curtained private dining areas, the Harmonia Gardens II was truly an exceptional establishment. 

Although Harold wasn't too particular about the food he ate, even he had to admit that the chefs were first-rate. The aromas and artful arrangements of the platters the waiters carried made him realize just how long it had been since he last ate a good meal, and there were so many wonderful dishes to tempt one's palate – roast chicken and dumplings, ham topped with pineapples and cherries, turkey with all the trimmings, kabobs flambé, fish, lobster, duck, Waldorf salad, large saucers of the most delicately whipped cream, and cakes decorated with fruit and flowers. The quartet had already ordered mock turtle soup, roast pheasant under glass, and a bottle of champagne to start, so when Harold was invited to partake, he did so eagerly.

In fact, Harold was so focused on sating his hunger that he was caught almost completely unaware when Dolly Vandergelder finally arrived to Harmonia Gardens. He was just finishing his third helping of roast pheasant when the back of his neck prickled, and he suddenly became aware that the whole restaurant had gone quiet. Following everyone else's delighted gaze, he looked up the long staircase toward the entrance.

At the top of the stairs stood the woman who could only be Mrs. Dolly Vandergelder. And she was indeed a stunner – Harold's mouth fell open when he saw her. It wasn't that he was attracted to her – he could feel the sheer presence and power that she radiated, and he both appreciated and envied it. It was nothing short of amazing that a woman could be so compelling, especially one in her late fifties – he guessed she was approaching sixty, due to the milestone birthday celebration Foolish Fella had mentioned was in the works. Dolly Vandergelder must have been a devastating beauty when she was younger, as even at an advanced age, she still possessed a great deal of majesty, charm, and grace. What's more, she was resplendent in a gleaming gold gown, which was cut in a silhouette right at the height of fashion and was possibly even an original. Either way, her gown suited her figure to perfection. Whether through heredity or artifice, her hair was a gorgeous shade of red, and she had adorned her crowning glory with jewels and peacock feathers. 

As Dolly Vandergelder regally made her way downstairs, laughing and chatting with everyone along the way, Harold's stomach fluttered with nervousness. It didn't matter what time he had arrived to the Harmonia Gardens, or what position he had selected at the table. This was _her_ territory, and Mrs. Vandergelder walked with the unshakeable confidence of a woman who knew she was the undisputed queen of her kingdom. Almost before he knew it, her piercing blue eyes were upon him – eyes that radiated shrewdness as well as the exuberance of a woman half her age – and she immediately made her way over, beaming at him as if he were her long-lost son.

"And _you_ must be Harold Hill, the new bandleader everyone has been talking about! What a pleasure it is to finally meet you!" she trilled, regarding him with a grin that was as incandescent as her gown.

As much as he quaked inwardly at being under her friendly but unrelenting scrutiny, Harold was far too practiced to show his unease. "Oh, the pleasure is _all_ mine, Mrs. Vandergelder," he heartily assured her, shaking her hand as warmly and sturdily as she shook his.

"Oh, please!" she said with a broad wave of her free hand. "Call me Dolly. Everyone does, you know. And this is my husband, Horace Vandergelder" – she gestured to the curmudgeonly fella standing beside her – "and my charming nephew and niece, Ambrose and Ermengarde Kemper." Beanpole and Mouse gave him friendly smiles – his wide and open, hers a bit more reticent but no less amiable.

Harold had barely managed to nod at them all before Dolly lifted his palm up to her face and examined it. "How very interesting! You have a forked lifeline. That indicates you will eventually come to a crossroads where you will need to make a very important choice. Make one choice, and your lifeline runs out almost immediately. Make the other, and it extends for a very long time." She looked up at him, her piercing gaze arresting him in place. "Choose wisely, Mr. Hill."

Although Harold didn't believe in that kind of nonsense, the certainty and solemnity of her tone sent an unwelcome shiver through him. Still, he managed to sound debonair as he replied, "I had heard that you had many talents, Dolly, but I didn't know you that you were also a fortune teller."

"Oh yes, I read hands," she said pleasantly, and continued her examination. "Aha! You will have six children."

Harold couldn't help guffawing openly at that, as well as revealing something about his personal circumstances. "Say now, I don't even have a gal!"

"Well, you're still young yet," Dolly said with a knowing smile.

Foolish Fella laughed as well. "Dolly predicted exactly the same number of children for me and Irene back when we first got married, and she turned out to be right… so far." He beamed at his wife, who grinned sweetly back at him.

Not liking the direction the conversation had taken – for all Harold knew, he very well could have left a child or two in his wake – the conman immediately cast about for a way to change the subject that didn't come across as rude, spoiling everyone's fun, or worst of all, cowardly.

Fortunately, he didn't have to say a word. As if whatever fortune, fate, or deity who watched over him had taken pity on his plight, Randolph Reisenweber came to the center of the floor and announced that the dance contest was about to begin.

Even if he hadn't been whisked out there by Dolly and the others, Harold hardly needed any encouragement to participate. In his travels, he had the enviable opportunity to pick up all the latest steps wherever he went and, given his innate talent for being light on his feet, he was certainly no slouch in the twinkle toes department. He reveled in all the praise and cheers he earned as he exuberantly cut a rug with one lady after another, and even managed to snag a dance or two with the lovely Mrs. Hackl before her husband politely but decisively took her back into his arms. Harold eventually found himself dancing with Dolly, who had admirable stamina for a woman her age – her less animated husband had demonstrated a surprising grace but danced only a round or two before returning to their table.

Although Harold prided himself on his dancing – one of the few genuine skills he possessed – he was still rather surprised when he managed to win the contest. Foolish as the lot of these Yonkers rubes were, they were wonderfully light on their feet. Acrobatic, even – Shorty actually did a flip or two! Perhaps the judges were taken by the novelty that Harold had brought to the floor. In any case, he accepted the prize without protest. As Dolly was his partner for the majority of the time, she graciously accepted the cup when he insisted she take it (a traveling salesman had no use for such a bulky and unwieldy item in his luggage), and she likewise did not protest when he pocketed the fifty dollars. In fact, she was the one who took the money from Mr. Reisenweber and pressed it into his hands.

It was the first time in over a decade that Harold had made money honestly. It was an odd, almost uncomfortable feeling that this money was all his, fair and square. Not only that, this was the most fun he'd had in a long time and, for once, it wasn't at anyone else's expense. His heart was so genuinely warmed by all of this that he almost even started to like these people.

After all that dancing, Harold had worked up quite the appetite, so when the waiters brought out a full spread, he was more than ready to tuck into another sumptuous meal. However, once everyone was seated, they all paused and looked expectantly at Dolly, who was of course at the head of the table.

"Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death," she declared. "So let's eat!"

Harold couldn't help laughing, which earned him an approving grin from the matriarch. He had expected a benediction of some kind, and this was so much better. He was seated next to Dolly, at her insistence, and was completely at his ease. Without doing much of anything, he had sewn her up and she had taken him under her wing. Not only did she insist on serving him his meal, she cooed and clucked affectionately over him like he was a beloved member of the family. Harold didn't even have to sell himself – in fact, he didn't think he could get a word in edgewise if he tried. So he simply donned an engaging smile and let her stream of endless conversation wash over him. It was just too bad Marcellus couldn't be here to witness his triumph!

One thing did bother him, though. Dolly insisted on calling him Mr. Hill. Not only that, she never seemed to hear him when he politely corrected, "_Professor_ Hill." He was not a man people brushed aside so lightly, but when she did it, everyone else followed her lead.

Knowing that this wasn't a battle he could win, Harold tried to ignore his disquiet and focus on the conversation. Apparently, Dolly had been married before, and very happily, as she often punctuated her admittedly amusing anecdotes with the statement, "As my late husband, Ephraim Levi, used to say… "

The conman also used this opportunity for silence to take the measure of her current husband, Horace Vandergelder. The curmudgeonly man had a rather interesting dynamic with his wife, as he often gazed at her with mingled affection and exasperation, and did not hesitate to abruptly interject when he seemed to feel it necessary to curb any of her excesses in manner. True to form, she fired back gracious yet cutting retorts with an air of both amusement and fondness. Harold wasn't quite sure whether this was merely a delightful little game they liked to play or would lead to real arguments behind closed doors later, but whatever was holding this unorthodox pair together, it seemed to be working. While Dolly was clearly the domineering one in their marriage, Horace knew exactly who and what she was – and what's more, he loved her for it. Although Harold couldn't help being charmed by the notion of such honest and unconditional love, he did _not_ want the kind of partnership the Vandergelders shared.

_But why should that matter?_ he reminded himself. He wanted no partnership at all! And even if he did, no woman would want him for keeps once she found out what he truly was.

Once again, Harold had let down his guard too easily. Pausing mid-stream and fixing him with that devilishly piercing gaze, Dolly said, "So, Mr. Hill, why don't you tell us all about your fascinating Think System? It's all anyone has been talking about in Yonkers today!"

Although it was phrased as a question, Harold knew it was a command – her tone was far too brisk and business-like for mere pleasantry. Fortunately, he was prepared for such an eventuality, and gave his usual song and dance about how he'd developed the Think System in concert with several music teachers he met in his travels, and that his method was guaranteed to take even the most tone-deaf of boys and turn them into, if not concert virtuosos, lads who could play an instrument reasonably well. While Dolly and the others looked thoroughly intrigued by his speech, Horace Vandergelder regarded him with skeptical eyes.

"I have no use for music," the hay-and-feed proprietor grumbled, once Harold had finished.

"You had no use for artists either, once upon a time," Beanpole put in, flashing a devious grin. "And yet here we are today – _uncle_."

"Yes, times change. For example, now that Cornelius is forty, he's finally worth his wages," the man acknowledged, before turning back to Harold. "But even if I did develop a use for music, this 'think system' sounds like pure bunk!"

"Now, now, Horace," Dolly chided, laying a quelling hand on his arm, "I'm sure Mr. Hill would be happy to give us a demonstration of his wonderful musical method."

"I would love to," Harold said smoothly. "But I'm afraid it takes weeks of highly intense drilling and practice. Just as learning to read and play music in the traditional sense takes time, I would not be able to use the Think System to teach someone music in the space of a single evening, even if it is a much faster method of learning."

"Of course not," she agreed, just as slick. "But as an accomplished band leader, you can at least grace us with some of your own musical talent. What instrument do you play?"

"Well… " Harold stalled.

Batting her beautiful eyes at him, she continued to press forward. "Surely, you must play _something_!"

"The trumpet," he said, naming the first thing his frantically racing mind seized on. "But unfortunately, I don't have my instrument at present. As you may have heard, all my merchandise was destroyed in a terrible shipping accident."

"Oh, that will be no trouble at all!" Dolly assured him. Standing up and gesturing broadly at the band on the dais, she soon had a trumpet delivered right to her side. Seizing it straightaway, she pressed it into the conman's hands with as much alacrity as she had urged him to take the dance contest winnings.

"It's a bit difficult to play impromptu on a strange instrument," Harold said desperately, feeling as though he were caught in the current of a raging river. Things were moving too fast even for him to keep up with, and he was no longer in control of the situation – if, indeed, he had ever been in control at all.

Horace Vandergelder raised an eyebrow at him, which had the disconcerting effect of lifting his entire forehead. "How can you teach children music on strange instruments if you can't play on anything but your own special trumpet?"

"Horace!" Dolly scolded.

"Allow me to make a few adjustments," Harold said, fiddling uselessly with the trumpet as he tried to figure a way out of this nightmare. But it was hard to think, especially when he was too busy reproaching himself for being so unpardonably stupid. As the conman regarded Dolly's blithely expectant eyes and Horace's darkly disbelieving ones, he realized how glaring a miscalculation he had made. Dolly Vandergelder must have had his number the moment she heard he came to town and, for all her scolding of her husband's rudeness, he was merely serving as her faithful second-in-command by playing the heavy to her sweetness and light.

And now, through their friendly duplicity, they had all but succeeded in smoking him out. He never should have let a good meal and a boisterous round of dancing cloud his judgment. He certainly should not have taken all of Dolly's petting and coddling at face value! Harold had thought himself so charming and clever and irresistible, but it was just as Marcellus warned – she'd cooked his goose before he even knew the water was hot. As much as it stung to admit, his shill was right to abandon him to his own folly.

And now his only accomplice was gone and everyone was gazing at him in rapt attention, waiting to see what he would do. There was no one to save him by causing a diversion at an opportune moment. His escape was entirely his own responsibility, and he had to do _something_. But for the first time in his life, he froze in fear before an adoring crowd. Although he wasn't in danger of being tarred and feathered in such posh surroundings, this somehow felt ten times worse than that horrible scrape in Appalachia. That was merely a backwoods tussle over one maid's honor. Here, he was about to be unmasked as a complete fraud. And once the glittering elite of Yonkers and New York City and all the leading circles of society Dolly traveled in discovered his true nature, word would spread rapidly – too rapidly for him to outrun. Even if Harold somehow managed to avoid detection and imprisonment, his livelihood would be in complete shambles. After his chicanery became common knowledge, no reputable company would want to hire him even as an honest salesman, and the disreputable companies would spurn him due to his sheer infamy.

Once again, whatever fortune, fate, or deity watched over him interceded on his behalf.

"Whenever you're ready, Mr. Hill," Dolly said kindly, reaching over and giving his left arm an encouraging squeeze.

It was exactly the wrong place to touch him, especially after an evening of vigorous dancing had rubbed his wound raw against his bandage. And she was _not_ gentle. Letting out a howl of genuine agony, Harold felt his eyes roll toward the back of his head as he passed out in sheer pain and terror.


	4. Just Leave Everything to Me

When Harold came to, he found himself on a padded chaise in one of the private dining rooms. His suitcoat had been removed, his necktie and collar were loosened, and his arm was freshly bandaged. It was strange and unsettling that his captors had seen to his comfort to such a degree. On the few occasions he'd actually been apprehended, he always ended up worse for wear, not better!

But the conman was not foolish enough to relax – the curtains to the room were drawn fully shut and Dolly was looming over him, hands on her hips, gazing down at him with an expression that was both amused and indulgent, as if he were a naughty boy that she nevertheless found charming.

"Harold Hill. Professor. Bandleader extraordinaire. Music man. What else do you call yourself?"

Harold thought of all the words the people he hoodwinked had used to describe him, and those that he used to describe himself in the privacy of his own mind. _Conman. Charlatan. Swindler. Fly-by-night flimflam man. Cad. Seducer. Scoundrel._ Aloud, he simply said, "I'm a salesman."

"Mmm, and a very good one, too," Dolly agreed, looking both sly and sad. "It's too bad you have nothing to sell. It will take nothing less monumental than love to change the terrible direction of your life. You need a good woman to keep you on the straight and narrow."

Harold shot up in alarm at that – and then had to lie back down when he immediately grew dizzy.

Dolly placed hands that were both comforting and firm on his shoulders. "Please relax, Mr. Hill. You'll only make it worse for yourself if you struggle."

Although Harold subsided, he wasn't about to let her run roughshod over his life, as she did all the others she'd snagged in her treacherous webs. After all, a man had to maintain his own dignity, even under duress. "I will never marry," he informed her. "If the business end of a shotgun couldn't get me to do it, even your cleverest conversational tricks don't stand a chance."

Dolly laughed. "Spoken like a man who has never been in love!" She fixed him with that piercing, uncomfortable gaze of hers. "Have you ever been in love, Mr. Hill? Of course you haven't," she declared before he could so much as open his mouth. "You break hearts like hickory nuts. You need reforming, and badly. And love is what it will take to clip your wings." She circled him speculatively, as if measuring him for a suit. "You are a man who needs an equal, not an inferior or superior. You need a woman who is beautiful both inside and out, a woman who can fill your heart and challenge your mind without ruling over you. She needs to be spirited and strong, able to hold her own against your considerable powers of persuasion. She cannot be easy to charm or bamboozle. You cannot be able to pull the wool over her eyes as you do all the others. As for her, she will need to see you for not only who you are, but who you could be. She will need to love you fiercely and loyally, above all else. And if you want to keep her, you will have to love her exactly the same way." She paused and put one of her long, slender fingers to her chin, as if deep in thought. "It's a very tall order. I can't think of a single woman I know who could fill it." She patted his shoulder reassuringly. "But don't fret, dearie, it's not impossible. She's out there somewhere in this vast country of ours, waiting for you to come into her life, whether she knows it or not. And you certainly don't know it, not yet. When you do meet her, a year or ten or twenty from now, do yourself a favor and don't let her slip through your fingers!"

For all his aversion to falling in love, Harold couldn't help being charmed by the picture Dolly painted. Her words struck a chord of longing in him that he thought he'd successfully muzzled once he fully embraced a life of crime. Back when he was still an honest salesman, he hadn't entirely discounted the possibility of finding a wife, but he never once met a woman whose company he hadn't eventually grown tired of. No matter how alluring, exciting, or gorgeous a female was, he had gotten over her eventually. While it may be cruel to leave a gal the morning after, it would have been far crueler to tie her to him for life when he couldn't promise fidelity or even prolonged interest. He may have been a cad, but he could at least take pride in the fact that he would never make his father's mistake. Besides, as enticing as Dolly's vision sounded, such a woman didn't truly exist. And even if she did, he would be a fool to fall in love with her. A woman like that could never love a man like him.

It was time to put an end to this nonsense. Harold's eyes narrowed and he stared his would-be matchmaker down. "You said it yourself, Dolly – I have nothing to sell. So what do I have to offer any woman, other than a good time for a short while?"

To his chagrin, Dolly was not the least bit intimidated by his steely glare. Instead, she looked at him with pitying eyes. "Such talent! Such showmanship! Such a lack of vision! What a terrible waste." She sighed. "Ah well, even if I did know such a lady, you're far too dangerous to keep around. As much as I'd love to match you up with the perfect bride, I have to protect my own. Maybe someday, when you get tired of the emptiness of your life and learn to care for someone, you might start to understand that kind of duty. But no, you're far too selfish to understand. Little wonder that your associate has abandoned you and you're all alone in the world – you're no good for anyone or anything! But I suppose that's what comes of never having loved anyone but yourself."

Normally, Harold would have chuckled at her insinuations. He might even have fired back a witty retort, if he was in the mood to banter. But after every single indignity and defeat he'd had to endure, not just this evening, but ever since he was caught in the haystack with that silly girl in Appalachia, his nerves were well and truly frayed. "You don't know me," he snapped. "You sit there so grandly, the queen of your silly little court, thinking that you've figured me out in a single dinner just because I happened to fall into your cleverly-laid trap. But you don't know half of what I went through to keep Marcellus in one piece over the years. You don't know how I got the knife scar on my side. You don't know what I did to keep my no-good father away from my mother. And you never will know any of these things, because everyone involved is either dead or long gone from Yonkers. So do your worst, Dolly Vandergelder!"

Instead of looking abashed, Dolly's eyes lit up, as if that was just what she was hoping to hear. "Wonderful! So you _can_ love. There is hope for you, after all."

Once again, Harold inwardly chided himself for playing right into her hands. She had riled him up on purpose, to get the measure of his heart. If he continued to tangle with her in this vein, he would probably find himself neutered and marching willingly down the aisle. Marcellus was right. He never should have accepted Cornelius Hackl's invitation to this dangerous dinner. And now that Marcellus had abandoned him, there was no hope of rescue. He certainly couldn't rescue himself – Dolly was far too wily for him to charm and bamboozle his way into escape. All this drivel about matchmaking was probably just her clever way of knocking him off balance and keeping him distracted until the law arrived to cart him off to jail.

Harold refused to play her little game any longer. A prison cell couldn't be any worse than being at the mercy of this damned, exasperating woman. Sitting up slowly and carefully, he said, "I presume the police are on their way here now? Or perhaps they're already outside, waiting until you've finally finished raking me over the coals? If so, you may as well hand me over now and be done with it."

Dolly blinked at him. "And why should the police be on their way? Have you committed any crimes here in Yonkers, Mr. Hill?"

Harold sighed, figuring he may as well lay all of his cards on the table. "You know as well as I do that I can't play the trumpet – or any other instrument!"

She laughed, as if he had said the most diverting thing. "Well, embellishment of one's talents is hardly a crime, Mr. Hill. I daresay we'd all be in jail, if that were the case. And if you're concerned about the money you and your associate have netted during your brief stay, the only money I've personally seen you take is the dance contest winnings, which no one denies you earned. And if any of our fine citizens have decided to make you a donation out of the goodness of their dear hearts, well, that is up to them. So to my mind, you have committed no crime in Yonkers that merits a call to the police – yet." She looked shrewdly at him. "But that doesn't mean I don't recognize that you are indeed a threat. For I have no doubt that, given the opportunity, you would have no qualms about taking the citizens of our fair city for every penny they've got. And let me assure you, I will not allow such a thing to happen, not under my watch. Yes, your wings need to be clipped, Mr. Hill, and soon, before someone far less merciful than I decides to do it." She glanced at his bandaged arm. "But I see someone else already has."

Harold wasn't about to be tricked into yet another revelation about his character or circumstances. So he cut right to the chase. "What do you want from me, Dolly?"

She regarded him with a fond expression. "Why, the same thing I want for everyone else – happiness and prosperity!" Going over to the curtains, she raised one of them. The tableau Harold saw couldn't have been more perfect if Dolly had it made to order. Ambrose and Ermengarde were seated at a small table, chatting pleasantly with their uncle Horace. Barnaby and Minnie were on the dance floor enthusiastically cutting a rug, to the delight of the crowd. Cornelius and Irene were nestled together in a quiet corner, looking as dreamy-eyed and besotted as if they were still a newly married couple.

"See, Mr. Hill?" Dolly said triumphantly. "So much happiness. So much life! All due to my expert arrangement." She looked conspiratorially at him. "You know, Horace is and has always been an honest man, but he used to be every bit as arrogant and selfish as you are. He hoarded all of his money, kept his clerks underpaid and cooped up in that horrible bran room without so much as an evening free, and wouldn't let his poor motherless niece marry the honorable and decent man she loved. Worst of all – he would have married the lovely Irene Molloy and treated her as an unpaid housekeeper! But I set them all free, and I did it by marrying Horace myself."

"I suppose the fact that he was half-a-millionaire greatly factored into your attraction to him," Harold couldn't resist remarking. After all, it took one hustler to know another. Despite her elegant mannerisms and genteel tone of voice, Dolly was as hard as the diamonds she wore in her beautiful auburn hair. She had the look of a woman who had once lived from hand to mouth, and she was certainly more than capable of scrimping and scheming her way into wealth.

Most women would have been deeply offended by his observation, but Dolly was downright proud. "Of course it did! As my late husband, Ephraim Levi, used to say, money should circulate like rainwater. It should be flowing down among the people. I married Horace Vandergelder to send his money out into the world. Money, pardon the expression, is like manure. It's not worth a thing unless it's spread around, encouraging young things to grow."

Refusing to be sidetracked by her ridiculous prattle, Harold returned to the matter at hand. "You still haven't told me what you want from me. I don't buy that you care for _my_ happiness."

"You may well wonder why I would bother with a self-proclaimed bandleader whose musical talents only go so far," Dolly acknowledged, closing the curtain and fixing him with a clear and direct eye. "I see a great deal of potential in you, Mr. Hill. We're cut from the same cloth, you and I. You are one of those rare people, like me, who have the insight and the ability to remake the world into something more grand and glorious than it was when you came into it. But you've chosen to use those tools to take instead of give. And it breaks my heart to see a man waste such tremendous talent. You could bring so much happiness and joy to people, if you tried." She cupped his cheek. "Why do you wander so aimlessly, from place to place? What made you into this empty shell of a man?"

A lump came into Harold's throat, and he had to turn away to collect himself. He didn't know what was worse – that Dolly had cut right through to the core of his soul in a way no woman ever had, not even his beloved mother, or that she had seen what he truly was and _liked_ him. He'd thought it bad enough when Clara casually pried into his affairs. This was ten times more humiliating. He didn't want to be Dolly's lover, or her cherished little pet.

Harold kept his voice low, so it wouldn't shake when he finally turned back to her and spoke. "Whatever you're planning to do with me, will you please just get it over with now."

"What do you want, Mr. Hill?" she asked gently.

He sighed. "My freedom."

She nodded understandingly. "And that's precisely the difference between you and me, Mr. Hill. You choose freedom, I choose the greater good. You should really try it sometime. It's marvelously freeing. But for now, there is a train leaving Yonkers in ten minutes – the last train out of town this evening. I suggest you go now if you want to catch it."

Harold goggled at her. "Just like that? You're letting me go?"

She smiled serenely. "Life is full of secrets, Mr. Hill, and I keep them."

Feeling as if he were in some kind of irrational fever-dream, Harold nodded. "Then I suppose I have a train to catch."

"Yes, you certainly do," Dolly said firmly. "Leave your suitcoat on the chair where it is – I'll make sure it gets returned."

And just like that, it was over. The queen had dismissed him from her court. Harold nodded again, and left the private dining room without so much as fastening his collar. As he made his way through the gaily chattering crowd, stole up the stairs, and slipped out of the large double doors, he half-expected to be ambushed by the police, after all. But no one approached him. No one even looked at him. Except for Dolly – he felt her piercing eyes all the way to the exit, making sure he wasn't going deviate into any further mischief. Wanting nothing more than to put as much distance as possible in between himself and Yonkers, the conman didn't dare look back as he fled the Harmonia Gardens II, lest Dolly change her mind about letting him go.


	5. To Gently Lead Him

_Whatever happens, I'll leave it all to chance  
Another heartache, another failed romance  
On and on, does anybody know what we are living for?  
I'll top the bill, I'll overkill  
I have to find the will to carry  
On with the show  
~Queen_

XXX

Dolly remained in the dining room for a long interval after Harold Hill's hasty departure, reflecting on the events of the evening. It wasn't often that her machinations failed to set a poor, wandering soul on the right road, but even she couldn't work miracles one hundred percent of the time. For even though the fly-by-night salesman was thoroughly chastened after she was done reading him the riot act, it was clear to her that he was far too entrenched in his wayward path to take her admonitions to heart for long. The way he insisted on going, he was going to meet a bad end someday. Her late husband, Ephraim Levi, had cautioned her that just as the doctor couldn't always save his patient, she couldn't fix everyone's life, and she took great comfort in his wisdom.

Yet she couldn't help grieving one of the greatest squanderings of potential that she had ever seen. Harold Hill was such a charming and gifted young man, but he would have used that tremendous magnetism to take Yonkers for all it was worth, leaving nothing but a string of broken hearts and empty purses in his wake. And after everything she had done to get this little town going, she certainly wasn't going to let a deviously charismatic stranger undo all her hard work! So it was for the best that she sent him packing – let him go wreak havoc somewhere else.

The curtains rustled, and Dolly turned at the noise to see her husband regarding her with wry amusement.

"You ran him off, didn't you?"

Dolly smiled, but sadly. "I had to, Horace."

"I thought as much," he said with a triumphant nod. "Like a horse's tail, you're good at getting rid of flies and other nuisances. Who needs a bull terrier with you around – you're more vigilant than any watchdog!"

Normally, Dolly found his clumsy attempts to compliment her terribly charming, but tonight there was real annoyance in her voice as she laughed uproariously and said, "Why, Horace Vandergelder, that is by far the most romantic thing you've ever said to me – you outdo yourself every single day!"

Normally, her husband would have snorted and fired back a cantankerous retort. Instead, he gave her the soft, affectionate smile he only ever showed when they were alone together. "I know you wanted to keep him, Dolly. But you can't."

"I know that, Horace," she said, just as tenderly.

He offered her his arm, and when she took it, he patted her hand. "It was _his_ loss, Dolly, not yours."

Her irritation faded, and she smiled sweetly at her husband in return. It was awfully genteel of him not to say _I told you so_. He had been adamantly opposed to allowing Harold Hill's continued presence in Yonkers from the moment the rumors about the bandleader reached his ears. While she was also admittedly unconvinced that the flashy flimflam man could live up to his own publicity, she believed in giving people the chance to prove themselves… or not. So Horace had allowed her to have her fun – she had seen to it early on in their marriage that he learned life ran a whole lot smoother and was far more pleasant if he let her have her little schemes. Although he never would have admitted it, she knew he had grown to appreciate her uncanny powers of observation, especially now that they were employed in his favor.

Dolly thought Horace would lead her out of the curtained alcove into the main dining room, but instead, he pulled her into his arms. When his mouth descended over hers, she was more than happy to cease their incessant banter for a little while. Horace Vandergelder may not have been the most silver-tongued lover in the county, but what he lacked in polish he more than made up for in devotion, and he always took pleasure in demonstrating to Dolly that he was not entirely the bad-tempered rube people believed him to be. Of course, her zest for life had sparked this wellspring of emotion that had been lying dormant in him before he'd met her, and most likely would never have been coaxed into existence if not for her indefatigable persistence. He had admitted this to her once in a rare fit of tenderness and, after seeing the way she had so adroitly and resourcefully looked out for her own tonight, he clearly felt another spell of mawkishness coming on. When he was in the rare mood to express such sentiment, she made it a point never to tease or antagonize him, as his affection spoke far more eloquently of his regard than any number of pretty but overblown words he could ever attempt to give voice to.

When they eventually ceased their canoodling and returned to the others, Dolly breezily made excuses for Harold Hill's sudden disappearance and the conversation quickly sparkled onward, though she did note Cornelius looked a tad wistful that the so-called music professor would no longer be joining them. Even after all these years, he was one of the most amiable and broadminded men she had ever known, and it was truly touching how he saw only the best in people. Little did he know how much he potentially stood to lose if she'd allowed the bandleader to worm his way into Yonkers society. Although Irene was madly in love with her husband and too much of a lady to even consider straying in any case, Dolly had seen the way the fly-by-night salesman looked at her, and she didn't like it one bit. Yes, it truly was for the best that she had chased the philandering conman out of town. While "Professor" Harold Hill had a lot of potential and may yet end up leading a real band someday, it certainly wasn't going to be in Yonkers or anywhere in a 100-mile radius of her and her own – she had made sure of it.

XXX

Once Harold passed through the large double doors of the Harmonia Gardens II and gratefully gulped several lungfuls of the cool evening air, he skedaddled right back to the boarding house to fetch his luggage. Marcellus may have taken all the donations they'd netted earlier today, but Harold had a full fifty dollars to his name, which would be more than enough to tide him over until the next job. There were times he'd ridden the rails with less than a dollar in his pocket, and he'd made do with what he had. Fifty of them – and earned honestly, at that! – was a rare luxury.

Normally, Harold prided himself on not being easy to startle. But when he opened the door to his room and saw his shill waiting for him, he let out a yelp and jumped a full foot into the air.

Once he'd managed to settle himself back down, Marcellus gave him a sympathetic smile. "She cooked your goose, didn't she?"

"Thoroughly," Harold acknowledged with a wry chuckle. "But I did manage to charm her a little – she liked me well enough to let me go. I'll be leaving town as soon as I can get my things together."

Marcellus nodded sagely. "I thought as much, so I came back and packed everything for you."

Harold suddenly had the overpowering urge to throw his arms around the loyalest and truest friend he'd ever had the good fortune to meet in his travels. Instead, he settled for a hardy handclasp. "I really appreciate that, Marce. As soon as I get out of these evening clothes and into a fresh suit, we'll get on the train."

Marcellus winced. "Greg… there's been too many close shaves for me to keep on with this kind of work. I _was_ going to leave town earlier, but it didn't feel right not to say goodbye first. You're like a brother to me, and I'll always be grateful to you for rescuing me from the gutter. But I can't do this anymore."

Harold felt a disconcerting glut of emotions, but surprise wasn't one of them. He'd known this moment would eventually come, but it still stung a great deal to lose the man who'd made his success even greater than it would have been if he'd had to run cons by himself. And while Marcellus Washburn may not have been the most polished in his speech, his sense of tact and discretion were unparalleled. Although he'd been right about everything since they'd stepped off the train into Yonkers, he hadn't reveled in his victory, or pressed for a fuller account of the most humiliating dinner of the conman's life, or even so much as given him a smug _I told you so_ smirk. Harold would miss having Marcellus in his corner. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he nodded understandingly. "What will you do now?"

"I don't know yet," his former shill said with a shrug. "I'm going to take the train back to Brooklyn and do some thinking. What will you do, Greg?"

"I'm going to stick with the original plan of going west, selling what doesn't exist. It's the way of life I know best." Harold grimaced as he remembered tonight's trumpet fiasco. "I've had quite enough of music, though. I might try my hand at something more practical, if no less fanciful – maybe steam automobiles."

"Sounds like a plan," Marcellus said with a nod that was neither approving nor censorious. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of cash. "Here's your half of the money from this afternoon at the mercantile. Take care of yourself, Greg."

Harold likewise reached into his pocket for twenty-five of his spoils. "And here's your half of the proceeds from tonight's dance contest. Good luck, Marce."

With nothing more to say, the two men parted ways. Although Harold couldn't deny how much it hurt to watch the only man he'd ever trusted board a different train, he took solace in the fact that they were now square and that their goodbye was far more amicable this time around. Best of all – Harold now had a full seventy-five dollars to his name. The fly-by-night salesman could take all the time he needed to cool his heels as he carefully considered his next con – he was absolutely determined that this one would be a ringing success.

As Harold boarded his own train, he was both exhilarated and disheartened. Although he was grateful to be getting out of Yonkers unscathed, he'd picked the worst time to travel. As it was completely dark outside, he couldn't look out the window at the landscape as the train sped down the tracks. He wasn't in the mood for company and, even if he was, the only other man in his car was sound asleep beneath a newspaper. Not even a poker game among other traveling salesmen would have enticed him, as he was loath to risk the loss of any of his hard-earned largesse. He could have tried to get some shut-eye, but in his present state, sleep wouldn't come easily to him. And so he was well and truly alone with himself, with nothing to distract him from musing on his spectacular failures in both Appalachia and Yonkers.

Harold Hill was not a man who was used to losing, or being humiliated and disgraced. Yet here he was, with a painful tar burn scar on his arm and a greatly diminished sense of confidence in his ability to successfully pull off a con. Appalachia had taught him that he wasn't immortal. Yonkers had taught him that he wasn't infallible. This was a very bitter pill to swallow. But he must take his medicine, or he'd walk into even greater trouble next time – and he might not be able to walk away from it as he always had before. So when his mind insisted on reliving each and every word of that excruciating conversation with Dolly, he let it. Although it was hugely embarrassing to recall just how thoroughly and adroitly she'd gotten both his number _and_ his goat, he needed to examine and learn from his mistakes if he wanted to put an end to the losing streak he was on. And now that he no longer had Marcellus to serve as his scout or his voice of caution, it was doubly important that he learn at least some circumspection. As Harold mulled these matters over, it became startlingly easy to see where he'd gone wrong. Before Appalachia, he'd had an almost dizzying string of successes, so much so that he'd started to delude himself into believing that he was invincible. These recent setbacks, while painful, were just what he needed to get his head on straight again.

However, when the sun finally came up several hours later, Harold eagerly seized on the opportunity to stare out the window and stop thinking for awhile. A little honest reflection was all well and good, but it wouldn't do to dwell too much on the past. Luckily, there were several charming tableaus to gaze at as the train wended its way west. A station master waving cheerfully as they passed through his tiny stop. A beautiful young woman, clearly expecting, tearfully embracing her husband as he rushed off the train into her arms. A group of boys splashing about in a swimming hole. A teenager carving a heart into a tree while his gal smiled prettily at him.

Dolly's words echoed in the conman's head. _So much happiness. So much life!_

It made a fella feel almost intolerably lonesome, watching these bucolic scenes flash by and knowing that, due to the life he'd chosen, he could only look for a brief interval, but never fully join in.

Turning away from the window, Harold shook off such silly sentimentality and contemplated his glorious future out west. He was as excited about his prospects as the intrepid pioneers must have been a generation ago when they sought their own fortunes. And there was still a whole frontier of untapped potential for the man who knew where to look for such opportunity. He'd milked the Eastern Seaboard pretty dry through music over the past decade. It was time to expand his horizons and explore the rest of this great country. After all, there were plenty of green people in the Southwest and the Midwest ripe for the fleecing. People in little frontier towns in the middle of nowhere who lived dull-as-dishwater lives. People perched on the edge of nature eking out hardscrabble existences without the conveniences enjoyed by those in more civilized areas. People who would salivate over the modern efficiency that the promise of steam automobiles would bring them. It was only too bad that such wonderful machines didn't actually exist!

When Harold finished raking in all the money there was to be had and got tired of roughing it, he could ride the rails to the nearest city – Chicago, Cleveland, Cincinnati, St. Louis, San Francisco. There were so many beautiful women out there that he had yet to meet and bed – women who wouldn't ever get to know him well enough to start mapping out his scars or seeing through his grand façade. He would never again make the mistake of getting too familiar with a pretty gal or allowing a clever gal to discern what he truly was – the mistakes he'd made with Eileen, Clara, and Dolly. Not that these slipups mattered in the end, as they would never come back to haunt him. Eileen was dead. Clara, being every bit as venal as he was, would happily forget him in another lover's arms. As for Dolly and her endless moralization and dissection of his character, she had only wanted to chase him out of her territory. She didn't truly seem to care if he conned elsewhere, as long as he left Yonkers out of it.

Harold had spent his whole life feeling tethered in some way – to his father's ghastly family name passed down all the way from the American Revolution, to the thankless demands of his job when he was an honest salesman, to the maintenance of his saintly and long-suffering mother, and to his loyal shill Marcellus. But now that his parents were dead, he was in business solely for himself, and Marcellus was gone, Harold Hill was entirely the captain of his own fate. He was no longer bound by anyone's hopes or expectations. He certainly wasn't bound by the rule of law, or by the burdensome sense of principle that hindered most men's willingness to exploit others for fun and profit. He wasn't even bound to a particular name – he could keep calling himself Harold Hill, or maybe he'd pick out something completely new, given that he was no longer selling music. He could do whatever he wanted, go wherever he wanted, be whoever he wanted. After all these years, he was finally, exhilaratingly free of all familial and fraternal ties, and had no obligations to anyone but himself.

It felt oddly hollow. But that was to be expected. After all, it was natural for a man to feel a bit apprehensive when the shackles were unbound and he took that first step from prison into the open air. This uncomfortable feeling would no doubt fade in time. The fly-by-night salesman was absolutely sure that where he was going, he'd find all the adventure and novelty and pretty faces he craved to fill that chasm.

What's more, Harold Hill had learned something very important from his downfalls in Appalachia and Yonkers. He would never again let a woman get in the way of a good con, no matter how tempting, scrumptious, or fascinating she was. If he was going to risk another tar and feathering, it would be for theft rather than debauchery. There would be no more threats of shotgun weddings, no more rolls in the hay with any bright-eyed, blushing, breathless, dewy-eyed maidens. Though he wasn't above engaging in a bit of canoodling or even heavy petting with such inexperienced females, he'd sate the full measure of his carnal appetites with the sadder-but-wiser girl before moving on to the next town, the next job, the next affair. The only constant companion he wanted from now on was Lady Wanderlust. She was the one mistress he'd gladly follow anywhere.


	6. Where Fortune Will Find Him

_It takes a woman to quietly plan  
And to gently lead him  
Where fortune will find him  
~Dolly Levi_

_There was love all around  
But I never heard it singing  
No, I never heard it at all  
Till there was you  
__~Harold Hill and Marian Paroo_

XXX

_June 1928_

In a charming Victorian somewhere deep in the middle of Iowa, Harold Gregory Hill kissed his wife and children before they went about their business on this fine Saturday morning, and lingered at the breakfast table in order to peruse the latest copy of _The New York Times_ that Fred Gallup had recently sent him. The music professor was an avid follower of the reporter's column on the arts, which explored all the new and exciting things that other musicians and actors and artists were doing across the country. It was a great source of inspiration, and yet another channel to the wider world that he used to keep the River City Boys' Band on the _qui vive_, as Mrs. Dunlop would have put it.

After finishing the article in question, which was interesting but unfortunately not applicable to his band, Harold leafed idly through the rest of the paper as he finished his coffee. As he was making his way through the obituaries, the following item leaped out at him:

_THE PARADE HAS PASSED – GOOD-BYE, DOLLY!_

_Mrs. Dolly Vandergelder died at home on 12:17 Sunday morning, following an illness of about one week._

_Dolly Gallagher was born and raised in New York City. When she came of age, her beauty, poise, and wit caught the eye of noted Manhattan philanthropist and dry-goods merchant, Mr. Ephraim Levi. They married after a brief courtship and settled in Manhattan. After Mr. Levi passed away, Mrs. Levi met and married noted Yonkers philanthropist and half-a-millionaire, Mr. Horace Vandergelder. Mr. and Mrs. Vandergelder settled in Yonkers, where they made many investments and improvements that helped reform the small farming community into the bustling metropolis it is today._

_Mrs. Vandergelder is survived by her husband, her nephew and niece Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose Kemper and their two children, and close friends Mr. and Mrs. Cornelius Hackl of Yonkers and their six children, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Barnaby Tucker of Yonkers and their four children. Mrs. Vandergelder was a true gem of womanhood – her consummate personal charm, unmatched refinement, peerless beauty, and myriad talents never failed to make an unforgettable impression on all she met, and the world is poorer for having lost her._

_The funeral service was held at St. John's church Tuesday afternoon and the remains were laid to rest in St. John's cemetery. A public memorial will be held at the Town Hall on 7:30 Friday evening._

Even after sixteen years of honest living, it wasn't often that Harold was caught unawares. But when he felt a hand on his shoulder, he jumped.

Marian had returned from dropping the children off at her mother's a whole lot sooner than he was expecting. She laughed gently and planted a kiss on his flushed cheek. "Riveting story, Professor Hill?"

Still somewhat lost in his thoughts, Harold wordlessly showed her the obituary.

"Oh, dear," Marian said sadly as she scanned the paper. "Dolly was so instrumental in getting the Think System established in her part of the country."

Harold stood and took his wife in his arms. Not only had he confessed all the details of his uncomfortable encounter to the librarian during their courtship, it wasn't the last time he was to have dealings with Dolly Vandergelder. Shortly after Fred Gallup's second article about the Think System came out, the now bonafide music professor received a letter stating, _Now that you have something to sell, we'd be very interested in buying_. And with that, Dolly helped spread his Think System to Yonkers and throughout the Northeast. But even though she was now firmly in his camp, and congratulated him profusely on both his marriage and his children when she learned of them, he'd never worked up the nerve to actually visit her a second time. They did maintain a cordial correspondence until the mid-twenties, which satisfied them both. The children also knew of her well enough to love her as yet another dear aunty who doted on them, and she sent them lavish gifts for their birthdays and Christmas.

"Are you all right, darling?" the librarian asked tenderly after a long interval of silence, her warm and capable hands tracing soothing circles on his back. "I had no idea Dolly meant so much to you!"

"It's not that," he assured her, his head still buried in the crook of her shoulder. Although it had been years since Harold thought of his disastrous dinner with Dolly, he remembered every bit of their conversation as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. While much of the sting had gone out of her perceptive and cutting observations, especially now that he was so happily reformed and could acknowledge the rightness of them, he would never forget what an arrogant and cocksure ass he used to be. He thought he'd been living life to the fullest, but in truth, he was running away from both life and happiness. This made him doubly grateful that he'd not only found Marian, but stopped his endless wandering to be with her. He had no doubt he'd be dead if he'd made a different choice.

If Harold believed in witchcraft, he'd say Dolly cast a spell on him. Although he hadn't been ready to hear what she had to say to him at the time, she'd ultimately succeeded in her aim to change the terrible direction of his life. He'd become everything she'd ever foreseen he could be, and then some. A full twenty-six years after he'd fled from Yonkers, Harold was not only alive, he was thriving. He was a legitimate bandleader who ran a successful music emporium with an innovative curriculum for learning music. He could actually lead a band, as well as play the trumpet and even the piano. And he'd not only married the most bright-eyed, blushing, breathless, dewy-eyed of maidens – who was also every bit as gorgeous, intelligent, spirited, passionate, and exciting as Dolly told him he needed – they'd made three beautiful children together.

Witchcraft or not, it was Dolly who set the wheels in motion that ultimately drove him to Marian – although it wasn't provable or even rational, he could never shake that feeling. If it wasn't for her interference, he might not have gone out west, and therefore may never have come to River City. And now here he was, enjoying an existence that was far greater than he ever could have imagined he was capable of achieving. Sixteen years full of happiness and life with Marian. Two beautiful, precocious daughters on the cusp of womanhood. A fine little boy that was his spitting image in looks but was already showing signs that he possessed his mother's keen intellect and spirited sweetness.

As if following the line of his thoughts, Marian remarked, "You know, it's truly amazing that nearly everything Dolly predicted about you ended up coming true. Except for the number of children we'd have together, that is."

He raised his head to look carefully at her, as they largely avoided in-depth discussions about his past affairs (and he still didn't like to think about the other three children that may very well have been somewhere out there in the world). To his relief, the librarian looked amused rather than disapproving. But then her teasing smile ebbed and her eyes took on that wonderful, terrifying softness they always did when she was about to tell him something important – and potentially life-changing.

"I know she predicted more children than our three for you, Harold. She could have been right about that, too. Not that there's any danger of this happening now… but if there had been a basket left on our doorstep during the early days of our marriage, I would have grown to love your child as dearly as the ones we made together."

Harold goggled at her. Without his asking, she'd just reassured him of something he'd always secretly wondered about, but would never have had the gumption to voice. He didn't want to know the answer if it would have broken his heart, and he didn't feel he deserved to know if it was otherwise. But now that she'd so freely and generously given him this reassurance, he continued to pursue it. "You mean, you still would have stayed with me?"

She nodded. "Why not? After all, it's not so different than a woman marrying a man with children from a previous marriage. Admittedly, it would have taken some adjusting to at first, but if I could make room in my heart for _you_, I could certainly make room in my heart for any children you may have fathered before you met me. And besides, I have always firmly believed that a child must _never_ be punished for the sins of the father."

There was only good response to a statement like that – Harold pulled his wife even closer and kissed her passionately. Of the few women who'd actually meant something to him, whether platonically or romantically, only Marian had ever made him want to be a better man. And she did it not by cajoling or tricking him into reformation, but simply by being her brilliant, beautiful, indomitable self. The mortifying ordeal of being known wasn't so horrible, after all, especially if the woman who knew him loved him just as fiercely with all her heart and soul.

"You must have been sixteen and living in Cincinnati when I was in Yonkers getting cut down to proper size," he said after they finally parted. "I did go through Cincinnati a time or two when your family still resided there, but our paths never crossed. As much as I wish I could have met you a whole lot sooner in my life, it was probably a good thing that we didn't."

"Neither of us would have been ready to build a life together back then," she agreed in a tone that somehow managed to be both reconciled and wistful.

His arms tightened around her again. "I'm just grateful to whatever fortune, fate, or deity that watches over me that I did meet you at a time when I could do something about it."

Marian smiled indulgently at him. "Perhaps it was Providence that had a hand in this matter."

"In partnership with the interminable Dolly Vandergelder," he chuckled. "If there is a heaven, I have no doubt that she's happily arranging the choirs of angels to her satisfaction!"

That diverting, mischievous twinkle stole back into Marian's gaze. "You know, darling… I don't have to be at the library until at least eleven, and the children won't be home until suppertime. When was the last time we had the house all to ourselves like this?"

It was merely two or three days ago, but he was immediately sold. Harold propped his wife up on the kitchen counter, nudged her thighs apart, and stepped between them.

"Shall we take full advantage of the solitude then, my dear little librarian?" he queried with a grin, his fingers tantalizingly tracing but not yet undoing the clasps of her garters.

"It would be a sin _not_ to, Mister Hill," she said mock-primly, arching her back in the most delicious manner as she pressed eagerly against him.

As his mouth found Marian's and her fingers found the fastenings of his trousers, he couldn't help imagining that Dolly was looking down upon the two of them right now. And what's more, she was gleefully regarding him with an _I-told-you-so_ grin.

_Mind your own business_, he thought both cheekily and amicably, and then thought of nothing but Marian as he made loud and shameless love to her on their kitchen counter.

XXX

_A note regarding the OCs in this chapter – Harold and Marian met Fred Gallup in Everyone Loves a Parade, and the reporter's full story is told in Triumph of the Early Bird. Harold tells Marian the full history of his rocky relationship with his father in Roses and Moonlight._


End file.
